One Day of War
by elfin2
Summary: COMPLETE. 2003 Miniseries. Amy Kendall was a passenger when the Cylons attacked. It only took one day to change her life completely.
1. Frakking right I'm scared

Chapter 1: Frakking right I'm scared  
  
Mornings are usually the best time of day for me; I always wake early, and I can stretch out and relax in a warm soft bed before I have to get up and face the work waiting for me.  
  
That day I lay in bed, staring in the dark at the glowing clock face and thinking that my next year or two was going to be really, really hard. Going to a prestigious university on a scholarship isn't so bad, but being dumped by one of the richest boys on the planet - that's hard.  
  
I shook that thought aside and flicked the wireless on. It might be early, but I'd had far more sleep than usual since it was the holidays and I didn't have to study. I listened to the news as I got up - a pyramid game, the Galactica's decommissioning - I was sorry about that one. My grandfather had said the Galactica had been one of the best ships he'd served on. Some political speech. The Hoteliers Union was calling for tighter restrictions on health payouts. Concern over a fuel spill in an ocean on Geminon.  
  
I took a quick shower, enjoying the chance to get my hair truly clean, and dried off briskly while listening to the babble about proposed tax laws. I had just finished hanging up the towels and was hunting for something to wear when the voice changed.  
  
"We interrupt this program for an emergency bulletin. A thermonuclear device in the fifty-megaton range was detonated over Caprica City seven minutes ago. Cylons have been detected approaching the system, and we are picking up signals that indicate other colonies are also under attack." I started to shake. Please, let this be a joke. My friends, my school, my university… "Nuclear detonations have been reported on Picon, Erlon and Toron. Picon Fleet Headquarters has been destroyed." I forgot about finding something that looked good and grabbed for durable trousers and a plain shirt, shrugging into them so fast I almost ripped the seams. My grandfather's stories came back to me like a blow to the temple. "The government has ordered a full hold on all civilian shipping. Emergency plans are being implemented…" My wet hair refused to cooperate and I settled for tying it back with a multitude of hair elastics to keep it out of my eyes. I shoved my glasses back on my nose and watched the world come back into focus as I hastily shoved my feet into my sturdiest boots and tied the laces frantically. I had the feeling that I wouldn't be needing a fancy gown for a long time. "We have a report that President Adar is dead, but this is unconfirmed…"   
  
The message ran for thirty seconds longer talking of casualties, then began repeating itself. I left it running and ran down the hall to pound on Jesse's door.  
  
"Jesse, get the hell out of bed," I said.  
  
A charmingly tousled head stuck itself around the door. Jesse might be my ex's little brother, but he was a good friend and shared my taste for engineering. We'd planned to study together. "What is it? It's early, Amy."  
  
"Turn the wireless on. The news channel. Right now. Caprica City's been nuked." I was aware my voice had changed from its usual soft alto to strident whiny tones like it usually did when I was stressed, and I was actually wringing my hands without meaning to. He looked at me and went back into his room with a disgruntled sigh. His whole demeanour of irritation vanished as soon as he heard the broadcast and he slid down the wall. I realised abruptly that he was clad only in his underwear, but I didn't really care. I grabbed his arm and hauled him back up.  
  
"Look at me," I said viciously. "Look at me." He did, his face slack with shock like mine undoubtedly had been. "We've got to tell the crew, if they don't already know. We've got to stay out of the combat zone."  
  
"The ship's armed."  
  
"Yeah, to repel raiders after an easy ransom!" I said viciously. "Trust me, that's not going to cut it."  
  
"Are you scared, Amy?"  
  
"Frakking right I'm scared!" I don't think he'd ever heard me swear. I was usually polite. "Look, put some clothes on and come on. We've got to find the captain." I stepped outside for politeness' sake and waited. He was out in seconds; I guess changing in a hurry for sports practice does some good after all. We ran down the hall, not caring if we woke people; several heads poked out to complain and I just ran straight past without answering a single question.  
  
I knew when the adrenaline ran out I'd feel horribly embarrassed.  
  
We found the captain inspecting the galley - in other words, scrounging sandwiches.  
  
I don't think Jesse was terribly coherent. He opened his mouth and babble gushed out. I told him to shut up and summarised the broadcast briefly. "Caprica City's been bombed. So have some of the other colonies. The Cylons are coming. The President may be dead. I think we're in the shit."  
  
He turned on the galley radio and tuned it; he got nothing but static. Twisting it to some channels I didn't know, he got a Civil Defence broadcast that was a masterpiece of panic and nonsense. I sat down hard at a table and stared numbly as the cooks gathered around the wireless like solemn magnets. "My God," someone said softly and with feeling.  
  
"My kids live in Caprica City," the elderly sous-chef said brokenly. "Oh, my God." He collapsed and started to cry softly. Someone else dropped to hold him and tried to think of something to say.  
  
"This can't be happening. It isn't real."  
  
"This has to be a joke. Please let it be a joke."  
  
"Well, that's today up the spout for a start." I don't know who said that and I don't want to know.  
  
The captain was suddenly up and moving. I ran after him.  
  
"Captain! Captain Holloway!"  
  
"Look, miss, you'd best go to your room."  
  
"No. This is important."  
  
"What?" I had to do an awkward sideways run to keep up with him through the unfamiliar corridors and keep looking him in the face at the same time.  
  
"In the last war the Cylons could infiltrate any computer system. That's why they were so deadly."  
  
"So?"  
  
"So we've started using integrated computer systems again. This ship has a large network of them. They hook into the drives, the weapons, the life support systems…" He skidded to a stop.  
  
"You're saying they can shut us down by remote?"  
  
"Yes. Very likely. They've had forty years to improve their technology." I felt the last bit of blood drain from my face and felt horribly cold. "And that means almost every ship in the Fleet will be easy pickings. We're screwed."  
  
If I thought he'd been running before, he was sprinting then. I was no runner; I hadn't a chance in hell of keeping up. I turned and ran for the passenger lounge, which had a console to show ship's status. I was half-way there, trying to keep out of the way, when the alarms went off.  
  
I skidded into the passenger lounge and tripped over the edge of a rug, ending up flat on my face. I stumbled back up in a very undignified manner, not that it mattered; everyone there was in night-gear or hastily grabbed mismatched clothing asking what was going on. They seemed to think it was some kind of safety drill, a joke in poor taste. After all, it was early morning - who could possibly expect such rich and powerful young people to wake up early after a late night drinking and partying? I just seated myself, rubbing hands with slight carpet burns, and tried to access the status report.  
  
Apparently the bridge crew had either not heard the government order shipping stopped or hadn't obeyed; we were running right into a fire fight.  
  
The ship shuddered, and then shuddered again. I remembered something my grandfather had said: "To a Cylon, there are no non-combatants."  
  
Everyone had thought years of fighting and fearing the Cylons had made him paranoid. I'd thought it had made him wise.  
  
Now it made me scared. Things, people, I'd never met were trying to kill me.  
  
Which were they? Things or people? My grandfather had asked me that once and I'd had no answer. I still didn't know. I just knew I didn't want to die. I was seventeen. I didn't want to die. 


	2. In space no one can hear you die

Chapter 2: In space no one can hear you die  
  
Fifteen minutes before my worst concern had been my social life. Now I was frantically trying to remember the location of the emergency breathers.  
  
Grampa was right. War changes your perceptions.  
  
It was a good thing I did. Just as I worked out where the emergency supplies were, there was a sound like someone firing a lump of frozen nitro-glycerine through a metal pole. My ears rang and popped. The entire view-port, which had been polarised against sun glare so you couldn't see a thing through it, shattered and leaped away into space. I was glad I'd been sitting with my back to it; I seemed to be slammed back into the chair. Carpet burns were the least of my worries. I locked my legs against the pole of the chair and tried to find something to hang onto while I reached for the breathers. I was getting cold and holding my breath wasn't helping.   
  
Thirty seconds in vacuum, if you exhale at the right time and close your eyes. Then you're dead.  
  
I grabbed a breather and stuck it over my face. The seals adjusted and knitted over my head, slipping a little on my wet hair. I secured the strap around the back of my head and grabbed a handful.  
  
Someone whipped past me out the window so fast I couldn't even flinch. I'd been hearing screaming for a while, but it faded next to the sounds of wind and fear. I hooked an arm around a table bolted in place and passed a breather to someone; I couldn't even see who. My eyes were blurring. Then someone slammed into me and I went flying. I slammed into the big coffee table in the middle of the room. Suddenly the window was down, and I was hanging awkwardly over an abyss with my midriff draped over a pole and the breath knocked out of me.  
  
And Helena Bonham hanging onto my leg.  
  
I dangled a hand down as best I could; she grabbed, missed, slipped, grabbed again and caught it. I tried to move so I wasn't so in danger of falling, but there wasn't room. The coffee table was too close to the ground to leave much room with my head draped down and nearly brushing the floor. I couldn't get any leverage to move, and my arm felt like it was about to part company with my shoulder. Helena's perfectly manicured nails were leaving bloody marks.  
  
She had a breather on, marring her pretty features, and looked terrified. I could see her crying and saying something. I couldn't hear the words, but I knew anyway.  
  
Don't let me die.  
  
Help me.  
  
Jesse was dropping towards me, holding onto a line made of cables. Stupid brave man. A loop of rope waved near my face - but to reach it, I'd have to drop Helena. He came as far as he could, but it wasn't enough. We had to get out of that section. I couldn't lift Helena up, and she couldn't climb up herself. If we didn't move soon, we'd die of cold; the air was all gone. I could feel the effects already.  
  
She slipped a bit more and screamed. The sound vibration seemed to travel through every inch of me. The rope waved near my face, tantalisingly near and yet it might as well have been a kilometre away.  
  
Jesse was yelling at me, I could see, but with one arm on the wrong side to grab the rope and Helena hanging onto the other and no way of moving that wouldn't send me off into space I was unable to do a damn thing.  
  
I looked at Helena. She'd been alright, for a rich snob. Fairly polite, even if it was grudging, and she'd helped me with my literature classes. I'd helped her with her mathematics. She'd never treated me like scum simply because I was poor. Barring Jesse, she'd been the closest thing to a friend I had at Northwood.  
  
Her nails slipped, leaving me only holding onto her fingers. She screamed again, like a dying horse. My fingers cramped and my arm ached; I felt I might have sprained something. The blood from her fingernail-marks was turning into red ice on my arm.  
  
I didn't want to die.  
  
I let go.  
  
She screamed again and fell away and out into the black space. Something flashed past, a wing-shaped blur meeting an orange light - a Cylon had just been destroyed. I could hear her scream echoing in my head even though it had cut off the instant I'd stopped touching her.   
  
In space no one can hear you scream.  
  
I looked up and grabbed the cable. They'd put a loop in it; I worked a leg through it and hung on with both hands while they hauled me in. Around a corner the world seemed to spin through ninety degrees, and the floor was again the floor. We ran for the nearest airlock between sections.  
  
I knew I'd never forget Helena's scream, or the look of sheer horror on Jesse's face I'd seen as I passed him. The others hadn't seen, but he had. She hadn't slipped, she hadn't chosen to let me live - I'd dropped her. Deliberately. I'd killed her to save my own life.  
  
I told myself that without her weight I could live. With it we'd both die.   
  
I could feel the air around me warming me, like a hot bath. Blood started trickling down my arms again. There was ice in my hair. My skin ached.  
  
It had been logical, perfectly logical, the only practical solution. It hurt. I'd never forget it.  
  
In space no one can hear you die. 


	3. Ashes in my mouth

Chapter 3: Ashes in my mouth   
  
Everyone slumped against the walls in the hallway. Francis was having hysterics. Ken and Marie were crying. Delia, Helena's elder sister, was slumped lifelessly.  
  
"Helena," she moaned.  
  
"Is everyone alright?" I asked. "Is anyone hurt?"  
  
Jesse shook his head dully. "Bruises, scrapes. We're fine." Plus lots of micro-capillary ruptures. In a few hours we'd be black and blue all over except for where we'd been wearing breathers. Zero pressure isn't kind to bare skin.  
  
I was alive.   
  
I could feel my heart pounding. It felt like it was going to pound its way out of my chest.  
  
"My arm," Cara had stayed quiet. Her arm was at an odd angle. An impossible angle. She was cradling it, rubbing around the break. "I hit the door-frame."  
  
"The infirmary is up this way."  
  
"I don't think I can stand."  
  
"Injured, or just wobbly?"  
  
"Wobbly."  
  
I hooked an arm around her waist. "Jesse, take the other side." He slid an arm under her good shoulder and we lifted, then walked her down the hall. Cara was pale under her bronze colouring and, for once in her life, silent. We were close to the door we needed, and I was glad of that, but we weren't the first ones there. There were several people there, badly injured, and the ship only had one nurse.  
  
I sat Cara on a chair, since the beds were taken, and told Jesse to stay there. He did. I think he was still in shock.  
  
One of the injured was in a suit, with a large shard of metal through his gut. I mean, right through. He was screaming. Abruptly he stopped. The blood kept trickling onto the floor. I can still remember how the new drops sent radiated spatter out all over the furniture and my trousers and boots. I remember the stench of burned flesh, and whimpers of pain and someone crying that they didn't know what to do.  
  
I had taken a first aid course. I could see the metal shard had perforated the intestines and bladder. I didn't even bother trying to save him. He was dead; he just hadn't stopped breathing. I moved on to the next, a woman I recognised as a pastry chef with a metal splinter in her arm. "It's missed the major arteries and veins," I told her. "I can pull it out and suture you up, I think. If you'd rather wait for the nurse…"  
  
She looked at the nurse who was busy trying to treat a chest wound. "I don't want to wait." She bit her lip. I fished in the medical case. "Morphine?"  
  
"I'm allergic to it."  
  
"It's all there is in here I know how to use."  
  
"Then do without."  
  
"Jesse," I called him.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Hold her arm still. I mean, really still." I got out a needle and thread, glad I knew how to use them. "Just in case, what blood type are you?"  
  
"A positive."  
  
"Good. Now bite on this." I stuffed a handkerchief into her mouth. "Trust me, otherwise you'll bite your tongue." She nodded, eyes wide - she was the kind of petite woman with naturally humongous eyes. It made her look five years old. I set my teeth, offered up a silent prayer and yanked. Blood oozed rather than spurted. I soaked a cloth in iodine and wiped the wound clean. If Jesse hadn't been holding her elbow, his hands acting as both restraint and tourniquet, it would have been impossible for me to get the wound cleaned - I had to take out a few nasty metal splinters as well - and suture it. Finally I was about to bandage it when the nurse looked at it and nodded.  
  
"It'll do," he said and went back to work. I did the same. I was in that sick-bay for over an hour treating the minor injuries.  
  
Cuts. A concussion that just needed ice and a place to lie down. Bad bruises. Some broken bones. I wondered how the fight was going.  
  
It couldn't be going too badly for us. We were still alive.  
  
When I finally got a chance to wash the blood and iodine and other things from my hands the skin was starting to turn dark from the blow-out and my head was aching. I felt nauseous.  
  
Jesse steered me out of the sick-bay. "Have you had breakfast?" he asked me.  
  
"What?" I knew he'd spoken, but I couldn't understand it. It was like he was speaking another language.  
  
"Have you had breakfast?" he repeated.  
  
I'd just killed a friend. My home city had been nuked. We were losing a war.  
  
"No. I haven't had breakfast."  
  
"Come on. Let's get something to eat and some coffee."  
  
The kitchen was indeed cooking. So many cooks for swanky food meant they could cook a lot of plain fare fast. I noticed they were only using the electric elements and asked why.  
  
"The gas line ruptured. We shut it down; didn't want to take a chance." The most vulnerable part of the methane piping was the section leading into the stove itself.   
  
I frowned. "Let me see." I dived into the cupboard and had a good look. "Does anyone have a light?" A torch was passed down as I curled my legs up to keep out of the way. "Oh, it's nothing serious. The connector ring on this bit of piping has gone, that's all." I came out. "Give me a spare piece of piping and a few tools and I can fix it in five minutes."  
  
"What do you know, a rich kid who knows something practical," the kitchen-hand muttered.  
  
I grinned at him. "My family own a pig farm. I was a scholarship girl." His nose twitched and he turned back to cleaning a frying pan.  
  
True to my word, five minutes later I'd cleaned my hands again and was seated at a table gulping coffee and guzzling pancakes. Social conventions be damned, I was hungry.  
  
Hungry. I'd just killed Helena to save myself and I could die at any minute. "What's going on?" I asked after my first rush of hunger was appeased. "Are we out of the combat zone?"  
  
"The captain made an announcement while you were in the sickbay," Jesse sat across from me. He didn't seem to want to be near me. "We'd headed right into the main fight and he had us run away at top speed, but we took damage. Space debris, and some missiles the guns shot down. He's trying to find us a place to hide. Things aren't going well out there."  
  
"We've been listening to the wireless," the kitchen-hand said. "The Fleet's lost nearly half the Battlestars. Every colony has been nuked. The President is dead. We're losing the war. Badly."  
  
"To a Cylon, there are no non-combatants," I quoted softly. "They must have been planning this for forty years, building up their forces, gathering intelligence… and we never even knew."  
  
"So… you're saying they're trying to kill everyone?" I looked at the colourless face of a maid.  
  
"Yes," I said finally. I hunted for something else to say, something inspirational or consoling, but my skin hurt and my lungs ached and the fingernail marks on my arms stung and Helena's scream echoed in my head and I kept seeing blood dripping onto the floor and Jesse's eyes wide in horror whenever I closed my eyes and I smelled of burned insulation and bile, and suddenly the top-notch food tasted like ashes in my mouth. I couldn't think of a thing to say.  
  
"Hey," someone else stuck their head around the door. "Captain wants to talk to you." Jesse got up. "No, her." He pointed at me.  
  
"Why?" Jesse asked.  
  
"I haven't a clue. You want the rest of this?"  
  
"Well, yes, but…"  
  
I gulped the last of the coffee. "Thanks for that, chef," I said and left. You don't keep the Captain waiting. 


	4. Salvage some of the guns

Chapter 4: Salvage some of the guns  
  
Toby was outside the bridge screaming loudly at a brawny crewman who was trying to tell him that the captain did not want to be bothered with demands to know what was going on - he was busying captaining.   
  
I wondered what had possessed me to go out with him. Loneliness, desire for approval, a chance to experiment? What?  
  
I was suddenly glad he'd broken up with me the night before. This way I didn't have to worry about offending him.  
  
"Toby," I said to him, "shut up."  
  
He stared at me.  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
"I said shut up. I apologise for not realising you are deaf." He gaped. "Face it. We're just passengers now. Find something useful to do and stop bothering the crew."  
  
"And what are you doing?"  
  
"Captain wants to see her," the dark-haired one who'd escorted me shrugged. "I didn't ask why." I squeezed past Toby and through the bridge hatch, opened a crack to permit me, then slammed shut again. His outraged sputtering was abruptly cut off.  
  
Captain Holloway was bent over a navigational chart. I read it upside-down; we were hiding behind a convenient moon, but it wouldn't last. The battle was over; the Cylons had moved on.   
  
We'd lost.  
  
"Ah, Miss Kendall," he said to me. "I understand you know a lot about Vipers?"  
  
"Well, sort of. My grandfather worked on them during the Cylon… the last Cylon war," I corrected myself. "His maintenance manual has become something of a family heirloom." The maid who tidied my room had noticed it and commented. "I've got that and his notes just about memorised, but it's at least a decade out of date and it's just book knowledge."  
  
"It's better than we've got. I want to scoop up some of the wrecked space-craft out there and see if we can salvage some of the guns and ammunition. Get that manual and head down to cargo bay three."  
  
"My room's in the section that got depressurised when the lounge window blew. I can't get in there yet." Every space-suit would be in use, I was willing to bet.  
  
"Alright. We'll manage without it. Get down there anyway." I didn't mind he was being rude; he had enough problems to deal with. Damage control, repairs, supplies, and most importantly of all, not getting us killed.  
  
I was glad I wasn't in charge. The thought of that responsibility made me shudder. No way did I want that!  
  
Toby was still yelling; I went past him at the run. By the time I got down to the cargo bay, people in EVA gear were hauling in wreckage. Most of the ships in the engagement had been destroyed, but a few had bits and pieces intact. I had to wait until the bay was filled and pressurised.  
  
It was a mess. I'd seen Vipers in museums, gleaming silver-white with pristine name-plates and cockpit windows without even a speck of dust. Elegant monstrosities designed to kill and dance and fly and burn.  
  
These ones had just burned.  
  
I wondered how many had stood a chance. There were wings, engines, half a cock-pit with the stumps of legs protruding; the pilot had been cut in half when his ship was. Most of the fighters would be debris, exploded debris, by now.  
  
How many fighters? How many big ships? How many lives?  
  
Had they even killed any Cylons at all? Had they made them pay even a little? Or had they just died like animals at an abattoir? Was this what Grampa had meant when he said war was pointless?  
  
A few of them seemed more or less intact, just shut down. The suited figures of the pilots were slumped over. The Cylons had killed every system they had, even the air circulation, and they had suffocated in their own carbon dioxide exhalations.  
  
Grampa had told me that happened with some fighters in the early days of the war, before they got rid of the integrated computer systems. You had to go right back to the Mark 2's before you got fighters with no disruptable systems. These were 6's and 7's.  
  
There was a time when I would have given anything I had to get up close to a working Viper, take it apart, put it together, see how it worked up close. Now I would have given anything to have the last few hours not happen, to have things back to the way they were before when I was a schoolgirl and naivety wasn't a luxury.  
  
I sighed. There was no one else around to help me. The EVA-suited people had left me to it and gone to fix hull ruptures. I went to get started - which I did by finding a ladder and removing the bodies.  
  
I couldn't work on a ship with a corpse in it. I just couldn't.  
  
Those bodies were damned heavy. Even the one cut in two was heavy. It left bloody marks across the floor. I didn't want to step on them.  
  
I wished my sense of smell came with an off-switch. I was sorry I'd eaten.  
  
Then I got a shock. I came to the last one, the one nearest the doors and furthest from the hatch, and eyed the damage. This one had battle damage, not system shut-down. Damaged engines, marks of jammed guns, scorch marks, shredded relays…  
  
I realised something.  
  
This one was an old Viper, a 4 - and I could fix it. Probably.  
  
Then I climbed up the ladder and hit the manual release for the cockpit.  
  
The pilot had condensation on his face-plate.  
  
I tilted his head back; it lolled.   
  
He was breathing. I could see it. I cursed and gave up on the idea of hauling him around like a sack of potatoes. With the others, the dead ones, I'd basically dropped them on the deck and not cared if bones broke. I wasn't strong enough to lower someone gently. If I was, Helena would be alive.   
  
This one was a bit more complicated. I moved around, set my arms under his shoulders and heaved, hauling him - eventually - out of his seat and back along the nose of the Viper, then down the wing. The whole fighter was sloped slightly; I hauled him along in fits and starts until I could step to the ground, then lowered him using a bent knee to cushion his head.   
  
I checked his air mix and yanked his helmet off. His pulse was weak and fluttery. I put my ear to his mouth, since I couldn't get his flight suit off to hear his lungs; he was breathing but not well. I hauled him as gently as I could, which wasn't very, across the bay.  
  
Sticking my head out of the bay, I found a couple of hydroponic gardeners who had been monitoring the air circulation systems and asked them to help. They carried the pilot off to the infirmary. I got to work salvaging ammunition and weapons; the basic design hadn't changed so much I couldn't handle it.  
  
Any real mechanic would have had fits at what I did. I observed no conventional safety protocols, I didn't bother with neatly severing connections and supports, I just cut through them with a welding torch. It was the difference between butchery and surgery. The part of me that appreciated craftsmanship curdled.  
  
I worked mechanically, going from one fighter to another in a kind of rough pattern, making mental notes of components worth salvaging. I wished I knew how the war was going. Then I decided I didn't want to know. I had a sick certainty we were losing. It was the kind of horrible gut-feeling you can't shake. 


	5. Our life is gone

Chapter 5: Our life is gone  
  
When Jesse came in to see how I was doing, I had finished taking the guns off every Viper except the Mark 4, and I had rigged that one up on a stand with the aid of some hydraulics meant for stacking crates and was trying to figure out what to do with the busted wing. I couldn't just replace it because of slight size differences which would affect the flight characteristics, and I didn't have the parts to repair it. His was the only Mark 4 in the bay.  
  
I glanced at the name-plate. It was almost the only untouched thing on the whole craft.  
  
Dancer. Lt Alex Sarashiko.  
  
He had been dark-skinned, bronze with tilted eyes. Mongoloid, that was the old term. Stunningly good-looking. He made Toby look ugly in comparison. Probably knew it, too.  
  
I shrugged that thought aside and bent back down to see if I could fit spare panels on over the damaged ones, but it would interfere with the weapons and instrumentation. Maybe I could ask the pilot's advice.  
  
"Hard at it, I see," Jesse said behind me and I jumped a mile, lost my footing, fell off the ladder and ended up flat on my back staring up at him stupidly.  
  
"Don't do that," I finally managed to wheeze. "You just took ten years off my life." He offered a hand and I let him pull me up; the distraction made me realise I was tired.  
  
"You've been at this for five hours, Amy," he said. "Are you alright?"  
  
"Five hours? Feels like five minutes." I looked at my watch. "Oh." My arms and shoulders were one solid ache. I usually spent my days studying at a computer terminal, not wielding welding torches and carrying heavy equipment. I'd need a painkiller before I could sleep and I'd feel even worse in the morning. My head was pounding.  
  
"Here," he held out a tube of pills. I gulped two dry; migraine medication Jesse took sometimes. "I figured you'd need them. Your body is turning black except for your face." I didn't like to think about it. If I were a haemophiliac I'd be dead.   
  
"Thanks," I said. "Is there water?"  
  
"Over there, and I brought some sandwiches."  
  
"I can't eat right now."  
  
"You have to."  
  
I sat down on the floor near a corpse and ate mechanically. I couldn't tell you what was in those sandwiches if my life depended on it.  
  
"Can we install these?" he jerked a thumb at the butchered guns.  
  
"Probably. Some have gone out already, a while back. There's not much ammunition, but it's better than nothing." I leaned back. "If I didn't hurt so much I wouldn't believe this was real."  
  
"I know what you mean." He slid down beside me with a huff of breath. "Why did you drop Helena?"  
  
I winced. "Does everyone know I did that?"  
  
"No. Tell me why."  
  
I stared at the ceiling and wondered why I wasn't crying. "I could save myself. I couldn't save both of us. I just wasn't strong enough to pull her up."  
  
"I've seen you in the gym. You're strong enough. Helena was light."  
  
"Not when you throw in the decompression I'm not. I know. I tried. I couldn't even hold on to her. I had to let her go while there was still enough time for all of us to get out without freezing to death." I looked down at my hands. Jesse was that colour naturally.  
  
"You make it sound so logical."  
  
"Jesse, if you don't want to be my friend anymore, just say so. I can't take the heartache right now."  
  
"What's gotten into you?"  
  
"Our life is gone. Northwood, the university, the city, our families. Even if the Cylons don't find us and kill us, what are we going to eat? Where are we going to get more fuel? How long can we possibly last?"  
  
He hadn't thought that far ahead. "I mean," I ploughed on, "think of all the things we need to survive. Air and engine parts and food and water purification gear and medicines and clothes and tools… where's it all coming from? There's nothing left of the Colonies, Jesse."  
  
He bowed his head. "No," he whispered. "There's nothing left." He started to cry, his whole body racking with sobs. I wondered again why I couldn't cry. I felt empty inside, like inside my ribs was a hollow cavern instead of a heart. I was pain and fear and anger and desperation all wrapped in one contorted package, and the grief hadn't really hit me yet. Oh, yes, I was scared.  
  
As if from a great distance, I remembered that Jesse was my best friend, and I put an arm clumsily over his shoulders. My shoulders were sending spikes of pain whenever I moved.  
  
"Why?" He gasped angrily. "What did we ever do to them?"  
  
"We made them," I said dully. "And then we rejected them. You know how I treat my parents. Think that, with no laws against murder."  
  
I don't think he heard me, and it's probably just as well. He was shaking, blubbering shamelessly, sobbing fit to tear himself apart.  
  
We sat like that for a few minutes until he quietened down, and I handed him the water bottle. I didn't know what else to do. I wondered when my feelings would stop being so remote. Even the sick desperate terror I had felt dangling over the abyss of space was better than this detached low-key horror of the future. 


	6. That's not a good start

Chapter 6: That's not a good start  
  
After a bit he was dead to the world. Not asleep; curled up and uninterested in anything but his own misery. I couldn't really blame him.  
  
His parents had been on Caprica.  
  
So had mine, of course, but I had stopped caring about them years before. Maybe that made me cold, but it also meant I wasn't mourning for them any more than I was mourning for everyone else.  
  
It wasn't real to me yet. It was a notion, a damn scary notion. But I hadn't seen it.  
  
I got up and finished the sandwiches, then went back to the Viper. Even if I wasn't sure what to do about the wing, there were still a lot of other things wrong with it, and I had to rig up some kind of launch platform so we could actually get it to fly.  
  
After a while Jesse came over, subdued and red-eyed but coherent, and I instructed him. I had to do a lot of stopping and trying to remember things, tracing circuits, testing things. I'm sure any true Viper mechanic would have had the thing repaired in a tenth the time, and wouldn't have made any of the stupid mistakes I did. The problem was, quite simply, that what I knew was book-knowledge of a different model with all the truly classified parts carefully excised.  
  
Which meant I could get things like weapons, fuel lines, life support systems and thrusters working, but the shorted control panels and computers were beyond my league.  
  
"If this one uses integrated computer systems, how come it's still working?" Jesse asked me at one point, passing me a circuit tester. No one can mourn forever, and Jesse wasn't the truly emotional type.  
  
"My guess is that it was in need of an overhaul," I said. "Yep. Definitely in need of an overhaul."  
  
"How can you tell?"  
  
"In every overhaul they replace the runners under the seat."  
  
"Why put runners under the seat?"  
  
"You think all pilots have equally long legs?"  
  
"Alright, that was a silly question, but what does that have to do with this?"  
  
"They don't really get replaced otherwise, just oiled. Impurities in the oil collect around the bolts down here, and this is the result." I straightened up with a finger coated in crud. "Apparently you can tell the length of time between overhauls by how much black stuff collects down there, and this one has gone without for a long time."  
  
He shook his head in bafflement. "Why in hell didn't you just join the Fleet?"  
  
"A lot of people in the Fleet don't do the really interesting stuff like spacecraft design, they do things like laundry and floor-cleaning and fixing busted water pipes. I did seriously consider it, but then I got that engineering scholarship and I could study what I wanted to study without taking my chances on the Personnel Department. It seemed a good idea at the time. Oh, crap."  
  
"That's not good."  
  
"What's not good?"  
  
"Hearing you say 'oh, crap'. I've heard you swear more today than I have in seven years of knowing you."  
  
"You'll probably hear a lot more if you stick around. This batch of wiring - I have no idea what it does, but it's half-melted, half-scorched, half-warped and half I don't know what but it puts me in mind of the dorm hot plate the cat peed on."  
  
"I did not need that image. What do the wires connect to?"  
  
"I don't know. If I twist any further I'll break something. I can't get in to see. It's not wiring I remember. On the Mark 2's there's just a set of banded cables connecting to the engine mounts. This is more like computer linkages. The wire's fine, mostly fiberoptic instead of metallic. I don't know what it does. I'll have to wait until the lieutenant wakes up."  
  
"How do you know his rank?"  
  
"It's written on the side," I said. "Now, you're better with computers. See if you can re-route the power and run a diagnostic routine. I can't find the malfunction."  
  
"You checked the circuit breakers?"  
  
"Please. You think I'd still be here if it was something simple? See if you can pull up the schematics for the fuel lines. They changed the piping style and I don't know if I can safely rig a patch."  
  
"Alright. Anything else?"  
  
"A miracle?"  
  
"Do me a favour, please?" he asked. "Turn the wireless on. I want to hear what's going on."  
  
"It'll make for depressing hearing," I said, but I did as he asked. "That's why I turned it off. I don't think I could stand to hear it right now."   
  
"So why'd you turn it on?"  
  
"You asked," I reminded him mechanically. "There's not much but static. It's not a long-range one."  
  
"What about the ship's communications system?"  
  
"Tap into it if you want to. I'll settle for this." Part of me wanted to know; wanted to know how long I could expect to live. I had a whole new appreciation for the fragility of life. One small speck of dust hitting the hull at the right speed and we'd be dead. One small blow in the wrong place, and we were dead. Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food, and we were dead. One minute of depression around something lethal, and we were dead.  
  
That thought seemed to come on its own, but I was like my grandfather; I was the type to commit suicide in anger, not fear or sadness. I wasn't giving up so easily. There was no good reason not to give up - it would certainly be easier, and everyone died eventually - but I didn't want to.  
  
My mother once said that pigs were the most stubborn of God's creatures, and I made them look easy-going in comparison.  
  
I shook that thought aside. I couldn't afford to mourn. Not then, maybe not ever. "What's that?" Jesse asked.  
  
I twisted the tuning knob on the small portable set. "Some ham operator on Caprica. Last-ditch broadcast, I guess." I could barely make it out. It abruptly cut off. "I guess the Cylons are still dropping bombs."  
  
"You think they're going for orbital bombardment?"  
  
"There's no Fleet left to stop them. If there's any of them left, they're either somewhere else or hiding. The first bombs might have been smuggled in somehow, but I doubt it."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"How would they arrange it? Cylons look like new garbage tins on legs with a headlight. They can't pass for human if they try."  
  
"Yeah. I guess. What about humans doing it?"  
  
"Why should they? I dare say there are - were - people who don't realise how dangerous Cylons are. I know my parents never saw it. But what could the Cylons offer them? Money? Power? Things like that - where would they get them? Why bother? Missiles are far easier to build and use, and a lot less risky."  
  
"You think they care about risk? They're machines."  
  
"Risk to one's self and risk to one's mission are entirely different things. This whole war - we had no clue it was coming. No warnings, no announcements, no rumbles, no deploying Fleet ships for manoeuvres or anything - hell, they were decommissioning the last ship that's specifically designed to fight Cylons yesterday afternoon. If the Fleet suspected something, they'd probably have put that off for a few days at least. Discovering someone trying to smuggle in a nuke would be disastrous for secrecy, and this whole thing had to have been calculated and planned to a tee in advance. Why risk your only chance that way when you can get the same effect far more easily if you wait for a few hours?"  
  
He looked away, his face darkening. It matched his hands. "Change the channel, please," he said hoarsely. "I think I found your schematics."  
  
I hopped up and peered over his shoulder. "Right. That bit, I need more detail." He enlarged the image.  
  
"Did you know this is probably a felony?" he asked, his hair tickling my face.  
  
"I know it is," I said. "Now I need a systems diagnostic of the controls."  
  
"Just the circuits?"  
  
"I need to know everything that's wrong with this ship. The more I can fix, the better. It's possible that pilot may never wake up."  
  
"What do you think was wrong with him?"  
  
"Given the back of his helmet was cracked and the fracture on the cock-pit roof, I'd say he hit his head. Without the helmet he'd probably be dead. My guess is that after that he passed out. What I don't know is why he unstrapped himself."  
  
"But there's not much damage under the craft, though."  
  
"One of the fuel tanks blew. The force went mostly outwards, or this would be a cinder right now. I think I've got the replacement fitted - one of the other ships had an intact tank."  
  
"You think."  
  
"It's not exactly the same size. I had to rig some brackets to hold it in place."  
  
"That's not a good start."  
  
"I couldn't come up with a better idea. The only other thing we've got that's remotely the right size and shape is the emergency water bottles stored behind the galley, and they're made of a plastic that fractures in extreme cold."  
  
"You actually know that? How?"  
  
"I looked up the ship's inventory just in case. Some of the parts I've replaced from on-board stores rather than cannibalising hulks."  
  
"You really think we can fix this thing?"  
  
"No."  
  
"No?"  
  
"But I can fix part of it."  
  
"You can?"  
  
"I know more about these things than you do. If it were part of a bigger ship, you'd know more than me. Vipers are the only space-craft I know in any kind of detail." I realised something. "You're jealous."  
  
"No, I'm not."  
  
"Yes, you are. You're sounding just like you did when Ari asked Cara out."  
  
"Amy? As a friend, will you do me one really big favour?"  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Shut the frak up." 


	7. Consider yourself crew

Chapter 7: Consider yourself crew  
  
I didn't realise how peaceful it was in the bay until Toby came in. It certainly didn't feel peaceful while I was working on that. Jesse and I were reacting like we usually did under stress - snapping, sniping and generally being unpleasant to each other. The radio kept making spitting noises, the ship kept juddering in a way that meant it was manoeuvring and we were scared half to death of what was going to happen to us. But when Toby came in, I realised that constituted peaceful.  
  
"…And he says I have to work! Me! I own this yacht!" He had been ranting in that vein for minutes while we appeared to listen. At that I couldn't help but snort.  
  
"What is so God-damned funny?" he asked, eyes bulging.  
  
"Have you listened to yourself?" I said. "The human race is being wiped out, and you're worried about getting blisters? Which idiot did you get your priority list off, the head of the Cylon-Lovers Association?"  
  
He seemed to inflate on the spot. "I own this ship!" The cords in his neck stood out.  
  
"I know," I said. "But you don't know how it works. The Captain does. So I suggest you shut up before you dig yourself so deep you get buried alive. You've already made a right idiot of yourself." I bent back over the panels. "Whoa. Toby, pass me the callipers, will you?"  
  
"The what?"  
  
"The tweezers with elephantiasis."  
  
"These?" He handled them like I would handle something that had been in the sewers.  
  
"Yes." I reached down and pulled something out. "Well, that answers three questions at once."  
  
"Huh?" Jesse looked over my shoulder. "What is it?"  
  
"Incendiary cap."  
  
"Eh?"  
  
"From a side-arm round. Our lieutenant unstrapped so he could fire his side-arm into this panel. It destroyed the wires linking the computers, thereby ensuring the Viper had no networked computer system for the Cylons to hack into. My guess is he couldn't shut it down fast enough, or maybe at all, so he opted for brute force. It must have worked. Problem was, before he could re-strap, a missile hit the fuel tank and he got slammed into the cockpit roof."  
  
"That took guts," Jesse said with respect. "He could have crippled his ship."  
  
"He did," I said. "Maybe he was the squadron guinea-pig, finding out what wouldn't work. I don't know. If he wakes up I'll ask him. Now I know what those wires do, but I don't want to repair it. Jesse, see if you can tap into the emergency routines and re-route control around the damaged circuitry. If this thing is going to fly again we'll need to funnel all command functions through one CPU."  
  
"Great. I haven't a clue how."  
  
"You're probably the best on board at computer programming."  
  
"I don't know military stuff, though."  
  
"Learn. You know more than I do. I only know the mechanical side, and that not very well. Toby, can you pull up the inventory list for the ship and see if we have any four-centimetre coolant piping? I need to replace some sections."  
  
"Can't you patch it?" Jesse asked me.  
  
"Nope. Marks 1 through 3 used five-centimetre. 5 through 7 used three-centimetre. This is the only Mark 4 in the bay. I need to either find the piping somewhere else or do a very strange jury-rig, and it'll affect the pressure and flow, which throws half the engine functions out of whack."  
  
"Do all Vipers have this many touchy systems?" Jesse groaned.  
  
"They weren't known as 'Faulty Fours' for nothing," I said. "Though, really, the 5's were worse. The difference was the fours were overpowered and the fives were underpowered. The designers over-compensated."  
  
"I'm not your secretary," Toby had been waiting to get a word in edge-wise.  
  
"Right now you're not anything, and neither, really, are we," I said as I examined a couple of melted rivets. "Now this is going to be interesting." I could hear Jesse muttering rude words as he tried to get the computers to do what he wanted and failed.  
  
"Miss Kendall?" It was one of the stewards. "Captain Holloway wants to talk to you." I sighed and racked the tools. "Where is he?"  
  
"The bridge. You know the way?"  
  
"Yes. You look terrible."  
  
"I just got up. It still doesn't seem real."  
  
"Can I ask a favour?"  
  
"What?" he asked warily. I guessed he was wary of rich people.  
  
"If Jesse hasn't taken a break in about five hours, come down and remind him he needs to eat and sleep."  
  
"Oh. That I can do." He seemed almost cheerful. "Can I ask something?" he asked as I tried to get the grease and worse off my skin.  
  
"Sure."  
  
"You don't seem…well…"  
  
"Toffee-nosed and useless?"  
  
"I wouldn't say that."  
  
"I would. I was at Northwood on a scholarship. My family owned a pig-farm."  
  
"What happened to it?"  
  
"It was on Caprica. Even if it's still there, I doubt it's going to last."  
  
"You don't seem sorry."  
  
"There's no love lost between me and my parents. I shook the dust off my boots when I was fourteen and haven't been back since."  
  
"Don't like farms?"  
  
"I like farms. It's my parents I can't stand." I bit back the rest of a long-stored tirade. "How's the war going?"  
  
"We picked up some military transmissions, a few government ones - we can't decrypt them. We're moving to answer a distress call from one of the orbital colonies around Virgon. They need to evacuate. About two hundred people." The yacht could theoretically pack in up to four thousand before the environmental systems packed it in, but I had no idea where we'd put them or how we'd feed them. I said so.  
  
"Neither do I, but the Captain won't back out. He's taking us there through what was the main battle-field, that's what worries me." But I noticed he wasn't saying a word about disagreeing. I gave Captain Holloway points for inspiring loyalty.  
  
The bridge was again guarded. I noticed everyone had a sort of shell-shocked self-absorbed look. I wondered what I looked like, but I couldn't bring myself to look into a reflective port-hole or shiny metal surface to see.  
  
"Miss Kendall," Holloway greeted me, eying the ruin I was making of my clothes. "Been hard at work, I see. You did good work on those guns, we're installing them now."  
  
"Thanks. What else can I do?"  
  
"We're passing through the remains of the battlefield. There's about fifty different transponder signals from ejected pilots, life-pods and damaged fighters. Can you repair them?"  
  
"I can do the basics," I said. "The problem is the damage here goes way beyond the basics. With the help of the pilots - maybe. I'm a schoolgirl, not a mechanic."  
  
He nodded firmly. "That's better than anyone else we've got. All my engineers are civilians, and I'll need them to rig the cargo bays as refugee centres. You've got Bay Three all to yourself, though. Consider yourself crew for now, and commandeer anything you need to get those fighters working again that isn't needed to keep the ship going. But bear in mind…"  
  
"We can't stop off at a hardware store anymore?" I said when his words failed. "I understand. We've got to conserve resources. Just one problem - how are we going to launch the fighters?"  
  
"We have three big airlocks along by the cargo bays. We use them for moving big cargoes like luxury ground vehicles or whatever in and out. Can you refit them as launch bays?"  
  
"Launch tubes. Maybe. But probably not. We'll need airtight partitions between them we can move to get the Vipers into position, and I haven't a clue for the Raptors if we get one. But I'll do what I can."  
  
"I'll send some people down to rig up the airlocks. Oh, and that pilot you brought on board is awake. Woke up about five minutes ago. I'll tell him to meet you in the hangar."  
  
"Good. Is the pressure back in the passenger quarters yet?"  
  
"Yes. Here." He handed me my grandfather's manual. "I had a look at it. How long was he in the Fleet?"  
  
"Forty-five years. He retired when I was eight and died six years later. Brain aneurism."  
  
"Pity. We could use him now."  
  
"I know. I'd love to have him here. I'd better get back to work."  
  
"Get some sleep at some point."  
  
"I got up less than ten hours ago. I can stay awake for a while yet. Now, how are you going to get the damaged fighters into my cargo bay without loosing everything already in there to space?"  
  
"We'll manage something. Go."  
  
I went. I didn't mind being considered crew. For one thing, crew get fed. Freeloaders don't.  
  
It had occurred to me that with food getting scarce, the Captain might well go to a 'no work, no eat' system.   
  
I hoped Toby would acquire some sense, or he'd starve, and he might not be the only one. In one day all his massive wealth and influence had come to mean as much as one of my farts.  
  
War is a great leveller, or so I'd heard. How long before it levelled us - leaving us needing graves? 


	8. I guess you could say I'm in charge

Chapter 8: I guess you could say I'm in charge  
  
I had to give Holloway credit - I wouldn't have thought of putting nets all over the deck to hold things down. I hadn't expected a pleasure yacht to have nets on board. It worked, though; Jesse and I sat outside in the corridor while damaged fighters were shoved inside. Just as we were allowed back in and were running to check out our new finds a furious whirlwind blew in.  
  
"WHAT THE FRAKKING HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING TO MY VIPER YOU IDIOTIC CIVILIAN PIECE OF…" He looked set to bellow all day. I shut the hatch on his rant and headed across the cargo bay floor.  
  
"Gracious sort, isn't he?" I asked Jesse airily. I knew he could hear me, because the hatch had hissed open again. "Are all Fleet so well-brought up, do you think? Or is it acquired in flight training?"  
  
"What?" I don't think he expected that. I'd never been so blatantly rude to a superior before. I'd saved the sharp edge of my tongue for my equals or near-equals in the social sense.   
  
I headed for the lone Raptor in the bay, a large lump of twisted metal. A smear of something had melted over the hatch. Inside two suited figures waved frantically. I waved back and hoisted a cutting torch, making the sign for 'five minutes' with my fingers. "Jesse, check the Viper pilots." Three were getting out on their own now the bay was pressurised, but seven were still. "If they don't have a pulse, dump them with the other bodies." I got to work cutting a new door. It took, as I'd promised, five minutes; that stuff was tough. The entire back end of the Raptor was so much metallic garbage. It would never fly again.  
  
I yanked the hatch open with the manual release. "You two alright?" I asked. "Who are you?"  
  
"I'm Zebra; this is Panther."  
  
"I meant your names." I gave them a hand down. "Welcome aboard the Starsong; I'm Amy Kendall. I guess you could say I'm in charge here."  
  
"You look a bit young to crew on one of these things."  
  
"I was a passenger."  
  
"Who's he?" The pilots congregated in the centre of the bay, swapping names and ships and stories. I listened, feeling distinctly excluded, while I helped Jesse move corpses. The Raptor was off the Columbia; Sarashiko and someone called Gallow came from the Prometheus. The others came from the Delacourt, the Richmond and the America. All of them had lost their ships; they were all that was left. Seven crew off five ships with over a thousand people each.  
  
I shook that thought aside. "The Raptor's a write-off," I told Jesse. "Those three Vipers are in the best condition, but we'd need to get rid of the computer systems. Those two I can fix by cannibalising others. The rest…" I shrugged.  
  
"Hey!" Sarashiko snapped. He was easily the best-looking and most annoying of the group. "What did you do to my Viper?"  
  
"Tried to fix it," I snapped. "Of course, if you'd rather I just destroyed it we can dismantle it or dump it back into space…"  
  
"That's quite alright," one of them interceded. He was a lieutenant commander, and the senior officer. "I'm Cameron Derrick." Off the Delacourt. "Miss Kendall, what's your guess on when we can fly?" I repeated what I'd just said to Jesse. "The problem is that I'm not a mechanic. I was going to study engineering and I've practically memorised my grandfather's old maintenance manual from when he was a hangar mechanic, but that's all. I simply don't know enough to completely repair anything in the bay."  
  
"Great. And that qualifies you to do that to my ship how?" Sarashiko asked.  
  
"You were unconscious," I pointed out. "What was I supposed to do, leave you floating in space to die?"   
  
"I've heard of you," one of the women said. "He got bounced from ship to ship because he had such a nasty way with words that he pissed everyone off," she confided to me. "If you can put up with him, I'm all for having you around."  
  
"Has my reputation preceded me?" he asked.  
  
"Sure. Both your rep as a great pilot and as the most obnoxious lieutenant in the Fleet. Now, young lady, how long do we have to fix up our Vipers?"  
  
"I don't know," I said truthfully. "Captain Holloway is taking us to evacuate an orbital colony. I don't know where we're going after that. Don't expect any help from the rest of the crew; they're busy working to prepare for the refugees and get everything we can use from that colony on board. We'll be there in a couple of hours. I have no idea what's going to happen to us. I figure just get everything ready as soon as possible. Ah, Cruz and Kambosi, isn't it? Do you know much about Vipers?"  
  
"No," they both admitted. "We've only ever flown Raptors."  
  
"In that case can you see what you can do to turn one of the airlocks into launch corridors? We will get an engineer to help with that. I don't know what we need, but you might."  
  
"Alright. Which way?"  
  
"Out that hatch and down the corridor. Ask for Kumiko. She's got purple hair, you can't miss her." They left quickly. "Which of you is best with computers?"  
  
"I am," Derrick said.  
  
"Can you work with Jesse to see what you can do about the fighters with jammed systems? I don't know where to start. If we can de-network the computers in the Mark 7's you were flying, then they'll be good to go."  
  
"Right. Bracken, you can help."  
  
"Right. That leaves me you three." Sarashiko, Gallow and the woman - what was her name? Yellowstone. "Let's start with this one here. It's mostly a matter of replacing engine parts."  
  
"Where do we get replacement parts from?" Gallow asked.  
  
I gestured around at the scorched twisted remnants of fighter squadrons. "Help yourself. What else are we going to use them for?"  
  
"Charming," Sarashiko said.  
  
"Would you rather be dead?" I asked.  
  
"No, but…"  
  
"Then shut up. Oh, and I should have asked earlier - do you guys have intact communications gear?"  
  
"Yes, why?" Yellowstone asked.  
  
"We picked up some military transmissions but we can't decrypt them. We don't have the codes."  
  
"I'll rig a link through the Raptor. How do I call the bridge?"  
  
"Talk to the switchboard. The Captain's got a secretary-type acting as a buffer. A bunch of the passengers were rich and they've been trying to bend his ear with one complaint or another ever since we got word of the attack."  
  
"Right. I'll get on it. Thanks." I shrugged into my work-gloves. "Any of you guys know how to fix melted rivets?"  
  
"I can," Sarashiko said. "I don't know much maintenance, though."  
  
"Flyboy to the bone, eh?" I said. "You know what they used to call pilots?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Airheads."  
  
"That's not true!" He snapped. Gallow hid a smile as he leaped into the cockpit to run a systems check. I realised something - I was glad to have help, but I didn't want to be treated like an ignorant little girl. The best treatment for that problem was not to be an ignorant little girl. I set to work. I was not going to flake out now. I had a job to do.  
  
I realised suddenly that I liked it. It might be frustrating, baffling and done with a sense of desperation, but I liked bringing order to chaos like that.  
  
I remembered something my grandfather had said, that the hardest thing about being a mechanic wasn't repairing the birds, but seeing the pilots take good ones out and bring them back banged up, or not bring them back at all. Funerals without a body, an empty casket, a soulless message to a far-away family. And the hangar mechs would always be wondering if they'd done their job well enough, if the pilots had died because the repairs hadn't been good enough, and then have to go on and do it all over again. An endless cycle of work and repairs and living with loss, and most times all you were doing was plodding along at the same old boring job.  
  
He'd stuck with it for forty-five years. If I gave up now, he'd spin in his grave like an industrial lathe. 


	9. If she's the President, we've lost our g...

Chapter 9: If she's the President, we've lost our government  
  
When I left the hangar bay with Yellowstone to get some supplies I found the corridors full of people.  
  
"How many people were there supposed to be?" she asked.  
  
"About a hundred and fifty, I think." I thought back. "No, two hundred."  
  
"There's more than that."  
  
"When the Cylons hit the colony we had time to drop the bulkheads," a girl younger than me said. "We thought ours was the only section to survive. We were wrong."  
  
"Right." Which meant we would be overflowing with wounded. I noticed there were a lot of young and old people. I hoped we could feed them all. Yellowstone and I collected our supplies in silence.  
  
On the Starsong, people had been shaken, but the people in the cargo bays were bawling their eyes out, moving like numbed robots, incapable of doing more than functioning. I wasn't that far off that state myself. I was almost glad to be working on the fighters. Yellowstone and Derrick, in particular, still had plenty of fight in them.   
  
"How much longer?" Sarashiko asked me as I wriggled under the Viper.  
  
"I have no idea," I said. "If you want to help, be my guest." He had certainly been doing less work than most.  
  
"Can you fix my cockpit?" he asked. "The fractures…"  
  
"Temporarily - yes. Permanently - no. I'd need spare sheeting."  
  
"What's the temporary fix?" I finished replacing the piping.  
  
"Hmm?" I had been thinking about something else. I was tired.  
  
"How do you plan to fix it?"  
  
"Oh. I'll fill in the cracks with something that'll freeze solid in space."  
  
"Like what? We don't have the standard sealants here, I checked."  
  
"I'll improvise."  
  
"That sentence fills me with dread."  
  
"More than the thought of waiting on board to die instead of flying?"  
  
No answer came.  
  
"Nice one, Amy," Yellowstone said. "You got any ideas?"  
  
"Sure, but if I say what they are he'll hit the roof." I glared at him. "Again."  
  
"I didn't do that on purpose, I was trying to shut down my computer system."  
  
"And it was a very nice idea, but you still hit the roof."  
  
"Does she ever shut up?" he asked Jesse.  
  
"Sure. She has to sleep sometime."  
  
I caught Jesse a crack in the knee from where I was lying. "Hey! I resent that remark. I have been known to be silent and awake for, oh, six seconds at a time on rare occasions."  
  
"Hey!" Cara came running in. "Oh, I'm sorry to interrupt. Amy…"  
  
"Yeah?" I slid out. "What's up, Cara? And is your arm alright?"  
  
"What? Yes, I'm fine. Some of the others…" She shuddered. "No, the Captain picked up some signals. A bunch of ships are forming up a convoy, we're jumping to join them shortly. He said you should know."  
  
"Who's in charge?" Yellowstone asked.  
  
"Someone named Roslin. Says he's the President."  
  
"She," I corrected. "Laura Roslin. Secretary of Education. She would have been returning from the decommissioning ceremony on the Galactica. And if she's the President, we've lost our government. If she was less than thirty-fifth in the line of succession, I'll eat my sunhat."  
  
"You won't need to. I looked it up. Forty-third." Cara was a bubbly sort, but now she talked with a kind of desperation, the need to vent. "I just hope she knows what she's doing. We're going to be one big target."  
  
"Probably," I said. "Look, can you tell me how soon?"  
  
"How soon what?"  
  
"How soon are we jumping?"  
  
"About now."  
  
"Oh. Right. Jesse, you'd better sit down."  
  
"Problem?" Gallow asked.  
  
"I hate hyperlight jumps," he grumbled. "They make me feel sick." He had just finished lying down when we jumped.  
  
"That was painless," Derrick remarked.  
  
"Speak for yourself," Jesse looked green.  
  
"Bathroom's down the corridor," I told him and he left very quickly. "Poor him. He's a planet-lover at heart. What's this conduit here?"  
  
Sarashiko peered past my hands. "Hold on a moment." He reached for the manual.  
  
"Let's hope at least one Battlestar has survived," I said grimly. "We need proper mechanics to get these things working right."  
  
"One has," Kambosi - Zebra - said. "I was working back through the transmissions. About two hours ago the Galactica transmitted a message to all Colonial units. Commander Adama is taking command of the Fleet and ordered all units to rendezvous at Ragnar Anchorage. He's planning a counter-attack."  
  
"Did we pick up any acknowledgements?" I asked.  
  
She shook her head. "Not a one. And that's worrying."  
  
"Very," I said. "Over a hundred Battlestars, not to mention the smaller vessels, the orbital colonies and dock-yards, the ground-based units, the Raptors and Vipers and shuttles and even the repair and rescue crews… and they're all dead?"  
  
"Except for maybe thirty ships in a convoy," Cara said. "Where's your wireless?"  
  
I gestured with a foot, since my hands were busy. "Whatever this line is, it looks undamaged. Pressure's constant."  
  
"What about my cockpit?" Sarashiko demanded.  
  
"Hey, it's more like sixty ships," Zebra said. "Wow. That's a lot of people. This President's got my vote."  
  
"Well, clean out the runners, here," I said. "There's crud in here. You try to pull the canopy back, it'll get stuck. Find a vacuum cleaner."  
  
"A what?"  
  
"The thing used to clean floors. It'll work."   
  
"You seriously want me to…"  
  
"Are you deaf?"  
  
"No, but…"  
  
"Then get moving." I got back to work. It was comforting hearing people talk of pooling supplies, fuel transfers, inventories and passenger manifests. Suddenly we weren't one ship running alone and scared.   
  
Well, I at least was still scared, but we had a chance. Safety in numbers and all that.  
  
I shook that thought aside. There was still the question of how we were going to feed everyone, but there was more hope with more resources. Perhaps a few ships could be converted to hydroponics and protein farming. Food grown that way tasted terrible, but it was food.  
  
I shook that thought aside. It wasn't my problem. Getting these Vipers flying was my problem. Things like food were the problem of the captains and the President, the ones with the responsibility. I had no right to be a back-seat driver. 


	10. Ideas, please?

Chapter 10: Ideas, please?  
  
It was maybe half an hour later that the hatch hissed open and someone else in a flight suit came in. I was elbow-deep in wires at the time, and had been awake and working for something like ten hours straight. Work where I couldn't afford to make even one mistake and sometimes I had to guess. Not to mention killing a friend, nearly dying and losing my home world.  
  
"Captain Adama, sir," someone said and I perked my ears up. The son of the new Fleet Commander - what was he doing here? I shook my head. Of course he'd come to see what we had, given we could very well be the only armed ship in the convoy, not to mention the stuff in the hold of interest to a fighter pilot. "Pass the soldering iron, please, Jesse," I said. He did so absently, looking over at our visitor. I glanced up, glanced again and went back to work.  
  
"What do you think?" he asked me softly, even though with the size of the cargo bay we could have shouted and he wouldn't have heard us. He was talking busily with Derrick.  
  
"I think he knows how good-looking he is. As for his military ability, I'll see before I judge." I frowned. "Bloody hellfire."  
  
"What? What's wrong?"  
  
"These wires are fused to the inside of the hull plating. No wonder stuff kept shorting out."  
  
"Well, we're screwed."  
  
"No, we cut the wires short of the melted bits and piece in spares. The trick is going to be doing that without ruining the insulation. This is going to be interesting."  
  
"How's it going?" The Captain asked. I looked down at him. I don't know why, but it surprised me that he was shorter than me.   
  
"Alright," Jesse said.   
  
"Don't suppose you know what this lot does, do you?" I held up another cluster of wires. "No one here seems to. I have to guess at bits."  
  
"Can I have a closer look?"  
  
"Jesse, budge up, will you? Thanks." I edged aside to make room for the Captain on the ladder. "I know what this stuff connects to, I just don't know what it does."  
  
"It's the secondary guidance links. Modem lines between computers."  
  
"And?"  
  
"And what?"  
  
"The way you said that makes it sound like I can't just rip them out."  
  
"It was designed so the same wires carried power and information. You can't get rid of one without cutting the other."  
  
"Oh, rapture," I groaned. "Ideas, please?"  
  
"Can't you just replace them with straight power cabling?" Sarashiko asked me. "That's what I'd do." A tone of voice like I'm an idiot; it made me want to hit him, but he was too far away.  
  
"Viper Mark 7's use a highly specific alloy in their power cables, and I don't know what goes into it. The whole idea is that it won't melt even if part of it gets heated to ten thousand degrees. It's metal, for extra strength and ease of splicing new cables, and all the cabling on the Starsong designed for that kind of heat is fiberoptic. Not only that, it's all the wrong resistance. The Mark 7's are the only ships built that use that wire. I'd have to re-shape it from scratch. I guess I'd better start dismantling that Raptor, there should be some compatible stuff in the navigational array."  
  
A hand on my arm stopped me. "Where'd you learn all this stuff?" A glimmer of respect met my eyes as I looked at him.  
  
"My grandfather was a hangar mech for forty-five years. I planned to study engineering, and I spent a lot of time letting him teach me how to fix everything mechanical or electrical I could get my hands on. This is just on a bigger scale." I looked around at the blackened debris all over the bay. "And I don't know what I'm doing this time around. I hope your old man's Battlestar has some decent mechs on board. We're about hitting our limits of what we can fix." I slid down the ladder and reached for my toolkit.  
  
"Are you alright?" he asked me as I rubbed at my face.   
  
"Nothing a bucket of coffee won't fix," I said. "But you've been up for longer, I'd guess, and you're still on your feet. I've got no cause to complain."  
  
"You're not Fleet."  
  
"I'm not sure that matters any more." I started pulling up floor panels in the Raptor. "Oh, gross."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Someone left their chewing gum down here." I could see him fighting back the urge to laugh. "Zebra, who do you know who chews peppermint gum?"  
  
"No one," he said, staring. "That's a disgusting habit. Not to mention against regs."  
  
"Remind me to file a complaint," Panther said dryly. "Who's our supervisor again?" 


	11. You didn't even try

Chapter 11: You didn't even try  
  
I don't know whether it was what I said to Captain Adama or just some really thoughtful person in the galley, but a few minutes later someone came in with a huge amount of coffee and hot food. I was glad of it; I needed that to keep going. I felt like I was running on fumes. But as my belly got full, I started feeling lethargic. I was just at the point of having to actually fight off sleep when the radio squawked. "Colonial One, I can't believe you want us to leave these people behind." We shared a look. "What's going on?" Yellowstone asked.  
  
"A lot of the ships in the convoy don't have FTL drives," Derrick said softly. "If the Cylons find us, we have to leave them behind."  
  
"No," Sarashiko leaped to his feet. I don't know what he planned to accomplish. I heard the radio going on. We were jumping and abandoning thousands of people with no protection at all, to save our own hides. It was Helena all over again, and it felt just as bad even though I wasn't the one choosing this time. If the President had given that order, if she had the sense and guts to do it, we might just survive.   
  
That kind of cruel desperation was no good thing for our future in terms of morals, but it might be our only chance.  
  
In my head, I never even considered that it was illogical to kick myself for Helena and admire the President. But I didn't blame myself, or not really. Not in my own head. I regretted it, but I had done the only sensible thing at the time.  
  
One look at Jesse's face told me not only that he didn't see it that way and probably never would, but also that he would never trust our new President.  
  
"Lieutenant!" I grabbed his elbow and swung him around to look at me. "You can't do a damn thing. If the Cylons have found us, those who can run have to or we die. Clear?"  
  
He stared at me like I was speaking another language. "Look at me," I ordered him, and out of the corner of my eyes I could see everyone turning to look at me. "Sarashiko. Dancer. It's called saving as many lives as possible." Behind me the radio conveyed someone's desperate shriek that there were Cylons approaching. A ripple ran through us and we were not where we had been. The FTL jump didn't bother me; I barely noticed. I heard Jesse losing his coffee into a hastily proffered bowl. "Sorry," he said weakly. "Sorry."  
  
I didn't turn around. From so tired I could barely keep my eyes open, I was now wide awake, every nerve thrumming. "Mourn them later," I told him. "You'll have plenty of time. Right now we've got to get your ships ready to fight. Look at me. Get angry if you like, but get angry at the Cylons. Then get angry at the people who made them. Don't get angry at us. You've no right to, and I won't stand for it."  
  
He stared at me. I felt like only the last part had penetrated. "You won't stand for it?"   
  
"Yes. I won't stand for it. You've no right. Now finish your meal and get back to work." I looked around. "All of you. It's a time of war, ladies and gentlemen. We can't revive the dead. So act like the living, and maybe you'll stay that way." I caught the look on Jesse's face, and my heart twisted. I knew I'd just lost my best friend forever. I felt horribly lonely. "Derrick, how do you want to go about getting the working Vipers transferred to the Galactica?" The ship shuddered.  
  
"What was that?" Jesse asked.  
  
"What's the Galactica got to do with this?" Gallow asked.  
  
"The Galactica was going to Ragnar Anchorage. That means we'll have gone there as well. It's the only logical place to go, the only place we can find a warship to protect us. The Ragnar Anchorage is partway down in the planet's atmosphere. My grandfather talked about it a few times as he got older. He said it had some nasty chop." The next jolt slopped Kambosi's coffee.  
  
"Finish up and get moving," Derrick ordered. "We've got to get the ships slung and all the usable parts boxed up for loading."  
  
I watched them as they worked, and felt that one more big demand on them and they'd break, or be so exhausted they'd make mistakes and die. Being a fighter pilot is not a good way to live a long time. I'd known them less than a day and I didn't want any of them to die. Not the dim slow Gallow, not the wry Kambosi, not the inventive Derrick. Not even the handsome and incredibly rude Sarashiko.  
  
When the transport came, I'd half-expected I'd ride with them and get a chance to keep working on the Vipers, yet there was barely room for the pilots to squeeze in elbow-to-elbow. I waved goodbye to them and shut the hatch before they could ask anything. I felt like a part of me had died. I wanted to stay with those Vipers. I'd put in barely ten hours of work on them and I didn't want to let them out of my sight, to trust them to other people. I started to understand why Grampa waffled on so about the bonds formed between people and machines.  
  
I shuddered. Where the Cylons people, or machines? Could they be both? Or somehow, neither?   
  
Jesse put a hand on my shoulder and I jumped. "What do we do now?" he asked me.  
  
"We clear out the cargo bay for the refugees," I said. "They need the room. Then we find a bed and sleep."  
  
"That's it?"  
  
"Well, unless you've got a better idea, yeah. Barring another battle, we can't do anything to help the Fleet now, so we do something to help the ship. There are more than three hundred people on board who need beds and food and space to live, and more on the other ships where they're jammed in like sardines. One of our bedrooms can sleep six people, think about that. Think about the equipment we'll need to give everyone showers and food and drinkable water. Think about the work it's going to take to keep us going." I looked at him. "Even if you won't help, I will."  
  
He nodded finally. "Alright. But I'm not doing it for you."  
  
"I never thought you were," I said. He winced.  
  
"Did you have to kill Helena?"  
  
"No."  
  
"No."  
  
"No. I could have died along with her. Those were the only two options."  
  
"You could have waited. We were looking for more rope, enough for her to grab it."  
  
"Would you have found it in ten seconds? We barely made it out of there before the decompression caused permanent damage, and you'd have been hauling up twice the weight."  
  
"You didn't even try."  
  
I did one of the hardest things of my life. I looked him in the eye and I told the truth. "You're right. I didn't." I wanted to run away and cry, I wanted it more than food and a bath and sleep, but I kept looking at him until he swore and walked off.  
  
Grampa always said war changes you. He was so right. I wished he was wrong. 


	12. I'm going to bed

Chapter 12: I'm going to bed  
  
I had barely had time to finish my meagre portion of cooling food and tepid water when the word seemed to percolate through the compartment like soap bubbles on a windy day; the Cylons have found us.  
  
I turned to stare at the speaker. "We've got time to finish the meal," I said, pulling him back to his chair. He'd started to get up. "If they were going to attack, they would have already. More likely they're waiting for us to come out of the storm."   
  
He stared at me, colour draining away. A refugee, I could tell from his clothing. "How can you be so calm? Do you have ice water for blood or something?"  
  
"I'm too tired to panic." I finished my drink. "If there's going to be a fight, we'll be given warning. I need some sleep." My arms were aching. I'd done so much heavy lifting, far more than I was used to; the pain would probably keep me awake. I went to my room, but found it full of sleeping children with a mother watching over them.  
  
"Don't wake them," she hissed.  
  
"I won't," I promised. "I just came for my things." I hastily packed a bag of durable clothes, keepsakes and toiletries. Things I'd need, things that were mine. "Sorry," I told her and left. I found a storage closet full of mops and the like that had a centre aisle clear and lay down to sleep. It wasn't warm or comfortable, but it was better than nothing.  
  
I had only about an hour of sleep before the intercom woke me up.  
  
"This is the Captain," Holloway announced as I rubbed my eyes. I had slept with my glasses on. "In five minutes we will be leaving the ion storm and jumping to another destination. Galactica will buy us time. All crew, report to your duty stations. Everyone else, please stay calm and keep out of the way. Thank you." I got up out of my closet and headed down to the nearest engineering station. I saw the flash of Kumiko's purple hair.  
  
"I can lend a hand," I offered, not sure how to phrase it. She took one look at me, shoved me a breather and a bunch of hull patches and told me to go up a level and wait. Patching crew work was scut work, but bitterly necessary.  
  
It seemed an eternity, those five minutes, standing there with a bag at my feet for lack of somewhere else to put it and waiting to die. But there was movement, then no chop, then we jumped. I couldn't hear communications chatter. I had no idea what was going on. I wanted to know how many other ships were making it, if we were being shot at…  
  
If my Vipers were coming home…  
  
But I heard nothing, saw nothing, and then we jumped, and we waited for a few more minutes, then the Captain's voice came on again. "This is the Captain. All ships in the convoy are here. Repeat, all ships in the convoy are here." I slumped against the bulkhead. "Everyone return to normal duties. Repeat: the battle is over."   
  
It felt too easy. Far too simple. The human race gets obliterated, and in a few minutes it's over and we don't need to look over our shoulders.  
  
It couldn't be over. I knew in my heart that the Cylons wouldn't stop hunting us. We'd be running all our lives, even if we stayed in one place. We had food, water and fuel for only a little while. We weren't even close to out of the woods yet.  
  
I wandered through the ship. Jesse and his brother were bunking down in his cabin, with some of the girls next door. I had been saved a bed, and I was grateful.  
  
"There's a memorial service being held in a few hours on the Galactica," Jesse told me. "You want to stay up for it? It's being broadcast."  
  
"I've never found any comfort in religion," I said. "And I shan't start now. I'm going to bed." There was nothing more to say. He had been my best friend, and I left him standing in the hallway.  
  
One day of war changed everything. Even me.  
  
Another day like that and I'd see a stranger in the mirror.  
  
Wars last a lot longer than one day. All this in one day.  
  
Just one day of war. 


End file.
